


Losing the Bet

by libraryv



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fencing, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 14:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Dolokhov struggles to prove to himself that Clara Palecekev is merely another woman, especially after his friend reminds him of an old bet.This would take place, for those of you out there who are interested, between Chapters 3 and 4 ofThe Revolution of Fyodor Dolokhov.





	Losing the Bet

“Again!” Dolokhov wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, turning abruptly back towards Mikhailoff.

“Fedya, I tell you I am finished. Let us take a break.” Mikhailoff licked the sweat off his own lips, studying his friend as he stalked in a restless circle.

“Fedya.”

“Come, Aleks, we have only just started!” 

Dolokhov whipped his sword through the air in a straight line in front of him, fixing Mikhailoff with a glare that would have scared a lesser man away. 

Mikhailoff laughed, shaking his head.

“Fedya, I have had enough.” He looked closely at his friend: Dolokhov had thrown up his hands in frustration and had paced stormily to the rack, slamming his sword in its place alongside its mates.

He turned back, his expression impatient.

“If you continue studying me as you are, I shall pull my sword back and cut that ridiculous grin off your face.”

He pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead.

“What is it, Mikhailoff.”

Mikhailoff met Dolokhov’s eyes and shrugged. Dolokhov gave a huff of frustration.

“Speak, man!”

Mikhailoff raised his eyebrows, grinning.

“I can make quite a good guess as to what has lit this fire beneath you.”

“It is nothing but the need for a good amount of practice, which you are refusing to give me.”

Mikhailoff shook his head.

“It is, in actual fact, due to a woman.”

Dolokhov laughed. 

“Aleks, you insult me. When has a woman ever had such an effect on me?”

“Since two weeks ago.”

Mikhailoff leaned forward. 

“About the time, I would venture, that you were rejected, thoroughly and soundly, by the beautiful and aloof Countess Palecekev.”

Dolokhov stopped his pacing; frozen to the spot.

“I did not find her to my taste.”

Mikhailoff grinned. 

“Ah. Society gossip travels fast, you know, Dolokhov. That was quite an entertaining story.”

Dolokhov rolled his eyes, but Mikhailoff continued. 

“Although not as entertaining a story as the one I heard last night.”

Dolokhov had strolled over to where his uniform jacket lay on a bench, and picked it up with a bored air. 

“What story, pray tell, would that be?”

“That the Countess sat down at the card table, and proceeded to play. Now that is rather shocking in itself, but listen to this: I heard that when Petrekoff challenged her, she gave him a verbal lashing – and you defended her.”

Dolokhov had remained still, and at this, he made a show of shrugging.

“What of it?”

Mikhailoff smiled.

“Fedya – do you remember the night we met?”

Dolokhov looked at the wall indifferently; he knew where this was leading.

“I said that one day you would meet a woman who did not fall over herself for you, who would challenge you. That she would be your match.”

He gave Dolokhov a triumphant look.

“And I believe that moment has arrived.”

“You are a veritable scoundrel, Aleks.” Dolokhov leaned casually against the rack. “I recall the evening perfectly; you have not won that bet and you never will.”

He raised his chin, smirking.

“But if I decide to pursue the Countess Palecekev, Aleks, it will be because that forwardness of hers needs to be taught a lesson. “

He withdrew his sword again and paced back towards Mikhailoff, smiling wolfishly.

“Now let me teach you another kind of lesson, and let us forget the beautiful Countess Palecekev.”

Mikhailoff, however, grinned.

“I thought you said she wasn’t to your taste?”

XXXXX

The reading that night at Pierre and Natasha’s was formal and pleasant: Dolokhov couldn’t care less. He did not like recitations, he found them a strange combination of both pedantic and frivolous. The man’s voice tonight was nasal in tone, and Dolokhov was gritting his teeth. 

He was pleased to be seated at the back of the room, to the side; this at least, allowed him a view of the assembled faces. 

He snuck a glance two rows up and to his right; the elegant profile and shining dark hair of the Countess Palecekev. She looked absorbed in the recitation, that pretty, clever mouth turned slightly down in concentration, the eyes straight ahead. 

Who was this beautiful, sharp creature that could turn down men and play cards like she was one of them? 

Suddenly, Clara turned her head, the glittering clasp in her dark hair catching the light, and she stared straight at him.

Dolokhov, caught out, recovered with a predatory smile, dipping his head in a deep nod.

The Countess gave him a disapproving once-over before looking back towards the front of the room. 

XXXXX

The guests milled about, clumping together in discussion, and Dolokhov had made up his mind to stay just long enough to find Pierre and Natasha and thank them, before leaving. The halls were still open, the night was still young, and he was not wasting it here.

He found them, and standing with them was the Countess.

He waited impatiently to speak; let him say his damn goodbyes and leave. The man speaking to Natasha was talking non-stop. He finally drew breath, and turned to Clara. 

“Countess, I am Prince Anton, and I have been longing to meet your acquaintance. I warn you, the ladies find me hard to resist.”

He gave her a self-satisfied smile.

“Your beauty knows no, er, no – I cannot even compare your beauty – there is nothing that can compare to your beauty.” 

Clara held out her hand graciously enough, but Dolokhov thought he sensed boredom beneath her impassive expression. 

Anton took the proffered hand and kissed it, leering slightly. There was a definite cast of subtle dislike to her features, now, as she spoke.

“How did you like the reading this evening, Prince Anton?”

“I did not find it nearly as distracting as I do your beauty, Countess.”

Dolokhov turned to Clara, curious, suddenly, to stay longer and hear what she had to say.

“What did you think of the lecture, Countess?” 

“Rather witless and overplayed.” She looked at him, her eyes dancing, before turning and looking directly back at Prince Anton.

“Then again, I find that to be the theme of the evening.”

Her meaning sank in, and Prince Anton stared at her, his mouth open. Natasha and Pierre exchanged a shocked but delighted look. 

Dolokhov was as taken aback as he had been the other night at cards. A few moments, and he began to laugh, desire shooting through him as much as amusement, but Clara had already curtsied and left in a dignified swish of silk.

He made his excuses and thanked Pierre and Natasha: he wanted to catch Clara before she left.

Finally, he found her outside, just as she was about to get into her carriage with Mariya, already seated. 

The coach hand moved discreetly aside and Dolokhov offered Clara his hand, knowing full well she could not refuse his assistance into the carriage in front of the crowd of people.

She shot him a look he could not read, and placed her gloved hand elegantly in his. 

Her boot slipped, only slightly, but he steadied her with a quick arm at her waist. Having her pressed against him was a shock to his senses; It was only a few moments, but it was enough to tilt his world on its axis.

Her face inches from his. He was close enough to see her eyes widen: she felt it too.

She stepped up quickly, settled herself into her seat across from Mariya, and gave Dolokhov a haughty look.

“That was not necessary, but I thank you for the assistance.”

Dolokhov’s temper flared at this, and he gave a short bow, but not before deciding to give her a swift, passionate look. He would undo her.

She looked away, but he had seen it, there and gone again quickly; a telltale biting of the corner of her lip.

Dolokhov smiled to himself. Cool and aloof the Countess may be, but this was not over yet.

 _Damn_ Mikhailoff.

**Author's Note:**

> I just can't stop writing these two. This was another, outline-only chapter that never made it in, and got tweaked and expanded.
> 
> Speaking of editing, almost, almost done with the next chapter of _Delirium :D_


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